


Automata

by specialdestiny



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, lost moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialdestiny/pseuds/specialdestiny
Summary: Little did she know that by gaining her own freedom of mind, she would also gain the inexplicable flaw of having no control over one's heart.





	Automata

**Author's Note:**

> This multi-chaptered series will not really be linear, so much as several one shots detailing different moments of Hector and Maeve's journey to robotic love.

Restless. Had he ever felt this before? In truth he could not recall a single night that did not feel precisely the same as the last. It was curious how until now, he had not ever considered the way that all his memories seemed to blur. Sitting in his tent, dark eyes intently staring at the silk ribbon in his bloodied palm, he remained silent. Outside the walls of his tent, the shadowy figures of his men around the campfire began to grow agitated, voices rose, until, upon hitting their crescendo, a double shot -- clean and precise -- fired from Armistice's gun. Two bodies fell in a slump, and all voices quieted to a murmur. She was always good for that, among other things. 

In the corner of his tent sat the safe they had stolen, but it had faded from his interest; he cared only for the ribbon he held. _Her_ ribbon. Torn from her bodice as he had lifted her with ease out of the dangerous trajectory of the safe's landing. He had hardly noticed at all until he returned to his camp, having left the town riveted with his ominous words of warning. Yet he now sat, as if this small piece of silk held all the answers to questions he did not even know to ask. 

Hector Escaton was a great many things: murderer, thief, outlaw, connoisseur of fine whiskey -- but lover of many women had never been chief among them. He found women to be.... distractions; though they never seemed to be in short supply of wanting him. This particular woman, however --- she was something else entirely. Perhaps it was merely a sideeffect of the strong drink had taken upon entering her fine establishment, and there was little more to the story. He had also heard tale of women in her trade being bewitching, finding ways to ensnare men so that they might make a few more coins of gold for their effort --- and though he was no stranger to the idea of powers beyond men and guns, this remained just beyond the grasp of his understanding. He had only just met her, yet he knew her. Flashes of memory - or were they dream? - plagued him each time he ran his thumb over the fraying edge of the pale silk. 

He saw her straddling the very safe he now had reclaimed, felt her hands on his, guiding him to her waist. He could smell blood, _taste_ it too. Her breath was warm on his face --- but how could it be? Surely nothing of the sort had ever happened to him, nor had he ever had the pleasure of having her in such ways. She was not a woman who was easy to forget.

"Madness." He spat to the darkness, tossing the ribbon away with a thinly veiled measure of alarm. The natives who had raised him spoke often of cursed objects. Of gods and demons. Whatever mysticisms might be, he would not be victim to anything but the wrong end of a bullet. Yes, that would be his end. He would die violent and bloody, as he had lived; not at the hands of a woman with haunting beauty and tawny eyes. 

Perhaps sleep was all that was needed to clear his head --- once the whiskey had worn off, he would be fine. He would wake up as he did each morning: thirsty for mayhem.

\---------------------------------------

"Sir, one of the hosts is breaking narrative."

"Fuck sakes. Which one now?"

"Escaton, sir. He should be on his way to the prison shoot out with Lawrence, but instead he's --- " the technician tapped at her keys, squinting at the read out. "Going to Sweetwater."

"What the bloody fuck for? Did one of you idiots try altering my script again?" Shoving the girl out of the way of her station, Sizemore scowled as he furiously typed away. None of this was right. One or two unimportant hosts behaving erratically was one thing, but one of the main characters like Escaton breaking his cycle? Something was clearly fucked beyond repair. "We need to freeze the simulation. Alert the guests in Sweetwater we're going to need a reset." He barked the orders as he grabbed his coat, and a mobile diagnostics kit. "And someone get me a bloody drink."

\---------------------------------------

The atmosphere inside the Mariposa was as calm and enticing as intended. The piano played itself in a tune just jovial enough to keep the drunks from shooting one another, and just slow enough to set the mood for a trip upstairs. Maeve Millay sat on a stool, her sharp gaze watching each guest with intense scrutiny. She was beginning to be able to tell them apart now, at least she thought as much. Her lace fan was slowly making passes, keeping the beading sweat on her bosoms from becoming too unbearable. All in all, it was _fucking boring_. She thought she'd noticed one of the men seemed extra agitated. Perhaps he would be an ideal candidate to test her little theory further on? It wouldn't take much to get the brute spraying bullets into the saloon, and it would take even less for her to step in front of one. It really wasn't so macabre as it seemed; after the tenth time dying, she had gotten rather used to the shock of it all. And besides, she did so miss her little chats with Felix, such a clever little boy, that one. 

Her gaze never left the man she intended to incite, even as a lace-gloved hand reached for the small glass of sherry sat atop the bar next to her, bringing it to rouged lips, and tossing it back in a single swallow. "No time the present," she muttered to herself, pushing off the bar, ready to utter those devastating simple small words that would drive any man to defend his ego at gunpoint, when a hand caught her roughly by the arm, and pulled her back. 

Fire lit her gaze as she whipped around to face whoever the fuck would be so goddamn foolish, a warning ripe on her tongue until she laid eyes on just who it was. "You," she spoke, visibly surpised to see him here. Granted he took some measure of disguise, though it was really quite the laughable sight. "I hadn't expected to see you back so soon, darling. Did you forget something in your little raid?" She smirked, never once shrinking back from him. She had never feared him before she had become so intimately acquainted with death, she certain was not going to start fearing him now. 

"Could we perhaps, adjourn upstairs? Unless of course you are too busy with men who have too little intelligence and too many bullets to spend..." he watched her closely, dark eyes from under messy dark hair, even further obscured by the poncho he kept draped over himself. He could only be so careful with posters adorned with his likeness littering the town, but he had to see her. He had to have answers. 

"We can do anything you like, darling, but you're still paying." Her confidence radiated from the smirk she wore, as she wrenched her arm from his grasp, taking instead a gentle hold on his to escort him upstairs, and into a private room. She was quite curious just what could have brought him back to her, or if he recalled any of their many encounters. It seemed unlikely, without Felix's altering, not even she would recall as much as she did, despite the notes she left scrawled for herself, kept safe beneath a creaking floorboard.

Once the door was locked, she crossed the room, pulling the curtains, blocking most of the dimming daylight from entering at all, and more importantly, ensuring their privacy. "Before we do anything, darling, do take off that ridiculous disguise. You look like a beggar -- " sat on the end of the bed, legs crossed ostentatiously on display, she gave him a grin, as she watched him pull the dusty poncho off and toss it aside. He looked much better this way, in all black leather, form fitting and complimentary to his figure. She liked not to think of herself as vain, but there was truth to the notion that his attractiveness incentivized her choice in recruiting him. That, and his sheer gullibility, of course. A man like him was as easy to manipulate as a child who wanted sweets. Simply dangle the one thing he wanted most before him, and watch as he fell to his knees.

"You are as blunt as ever I see," he spoke plainly, his voice rough and gravely, yet having the oddest sort of softness to it. A way of speaking he found only reserved for her. "A woman unafraid to speak her mind is a rare thing indeed. I wonder then, perhaps, if you would do me the service of speaking so plainly when I ask you to explain something to me..." he approached her slowly, methodically, a single step with each word, until he stood directly before her, staring down at her unflinching face; given pause by her beauty. His hands outstretched, leaning against either side of the bed's posts, as he neared her, so that he might lower his voice and still be heard. "How is it that I can remember you in ways which we have never enjoyed? And why is it --- " abandoning his hold upon one of the posts to reach into his pocket, he produced the ribbon, holding it out to her for inspection. "that ever since I last spoke with you, these ---- visions have plagued me? What is that you are, truly?"

The earnestness in his voice gave her hope for but a moment, until she realized he did not remember the important parts of their meetings. The bullet, or the trade of information they had bartered. She'd be damned if he even remembered their kiss. Men; the lot of them were god damn useless. Exhaling out her frustration, she ran a hand up his chest, and gave a coy smile. "Darling are you sure you've been drinking enough water? The desert heat can be a nasty trickster." 

Frustration flashed into his eyes as he threw the ribbon down and took her wrist firmly in his grip, wrenching it away from himself and pulling her closer in the same movement. "I would not suggest you play games with me," he began to warn, but was caught off guard by her scoffing laugh.

"Darling please, we both know you don't even have it in you to cut me, much less kill me." It was a moment before she realized her mistake, but the way the information processed in his eyes was evidence enough that he remembered far more than she gave him credit for. Immediately he released her, staggering back, with a hand threading through his hair. 

"How --- this is not possible," he growled, looking to her with a surprising sort of agony in his eyes. Suddenly, Maeve softened. She too remembered how it had felt when she first began to realize the nature of her reality. The maddening confusion and horror of feeling as if everything she had ever known was a lie. Crossing the floor quickly she reached out for him just as he fell to his knees, her hands cradling the back of his head as he stared up her, desperation glistening in his eyes. "What does it mean?" He pleaded to know, words that he had uttered before, and suddenly, her heart ached with uncharacteristic empathy as she moved her hands to his face, holding it there so she might meet his gaze. Vulnerability was not something to be expected of him, but by the desperate way he clung to her words, she had to assume he had been plagued by these demons just the same as she had.

"I will explain everything --- but you must trust me." She spoke soothingly, lying without the slightest hint of evidence. Reaching around to his side, her hand closed around a pistol, surprising that he would carry it, considering she had only ever seen him toting the ridiculously large shotgun of his. Placing the gun into his hands, she grabbed his face once more, turning his gaze up from where he stared in confusion at the weapon. "You're going to shoot me. And then you're going to run." She couldn't actually risk telling him everything just now. Not yet. Perhaps in time, she could set him free as well, but for now, she needed only to worry about herself. So long as she was free, she could find her daughter. Until she was able to take her own life, bypassing whatever protocols they had set for her, Hector would be at most, a means to that end. "Quickly now, darling, it sounds as if our _friends_ with the constabulary may not have been so easily fooled by your disguise." 

And it was true, downstairs there was quite the row breaking out, shouts and calls for Escaton's head in a noose, but she hoped there would still be time. Yet, the conflict in the eyes of her would-be lover raged like a storm upon some distant sea. She could see that he was trying to work it out, try to find meaning to her request, and she feared his perverse sense of chivalry just might foil all her plans. "Darling, I really hate to ask you twice," she spoke with more urgency, pulling swiftly into an intense kiss, which was certainly one hell of a way to go out ( again ). A kiss that stirred even the coldest of hearts, such as the one which resided in her chest. It was a brief kiss, lasting only seconds, but its searing heat seemed to go on much longer. As she pulled away, her lips hovered near his, heavy laden with deep breaths, trying to replenish what was lost on their embrace. "Trust me," she whispered, guiding his hand with the gun so that it aimed at her head. The last thing she could do was hiss out a commanding: _"Do it."_

He was a tool, one she found herself growing accustomed to, and perhaps one she had been too reckless with; but a tool all the same. Little did she know that by gaining her own freedom of mind, she would also gain the inexplicable flaw of having no control over one's heart. And no awareness seemed to grace her even as the last thing she heard was the sharp _bang_ of the gun. 

 

\---------------------------------------

Ten minutes late the entire city was paused, as guests murmured and gossiped while technicians scanned the area and cleaned up the mess upstairs. No one could give record of who had killed her, other than a malicious customer, and most of all, there was no sign of Hector Escaton anywhere.

Somewhere, in a fit of frustrated rage, Lee Siezmore shouted "Fuck!" to the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a little slow, but it is to set up how I plan to proceed. I will constantly change perspectives between the two of them, so let me know if it ever gets confusing.


End file.
